it would seem that the house, even in its moderate luxury so repellent to his ethical principles, was like the world in which he lived. He could not ignore it; he could not even reach his own cell without passing through it. But he had made an excellent working compromise in his own house, living his own life, and bating not an inch of his principles, but recognizing, first of all, the fact that he could not force others to live by them. It was the actual compromise which he had made in the wider world between ideas and actions, which, in spite of all his academic dogmatism, has made him an exception among extreme thinkers by his capacity to adjust himself in action to things as they are.
The first sight of Tolstoy confirms this view. His appearance has been so often described that it is hardly necessary to say anything about it: It is the appearance of an intellectual fanatic, but not of a dreamer. He is of middle height, and the peasant's blouse puffed out behind his shoulders produces the impression of a.distinct stoop. His expression, like that of Turgenieff, has been likened to the expression of a transfigured muzhik. But there is really nothing about him resembling the Christlike peasant at his best. His face is rude; his nose broad, with dilated nostrils; his mouth coarse and determined, and his forehead high, but sloping toward the top, His eyes, small, light gray, and deeply sunken, glitter out from underneath shaggy, projecting brows. The whole expression of his face is ascetic and irritable, with a dash of Tartar ferocity coming from the eyes. Trimmed and mustached, it might be the face of a Cossack officer, but it is never that of the dreamy-and benevolent peasant. The general impression one would draw from a first glance is quite in accord with the glimpses which Tolstoy has given us of his past life. It is the face of a man with the moral instincts and moral inclinations of the ordinary man, but who differs from the ordinary man in that his whole being is dominated by a fanatical intellectual earnestness,—who, therefore,in the first struggle between instinct and conviction, would surrender immediately to conviction. But it is the face of a man who, while absolutely unshakable in his convictions, sees things as they are, and is under no delusion as to his ability to change them.
But Tolstoy was not in his cell when first I entered it. In a few minutes he came in, with a copy of the Revue Blanche and a great roll of papers under his arm, and after a few words of greeting threw himself into hie armchair, and, with his general assumption that every one had read everything, began to condemn severely a story which he had been reading. He spoke in English, very correctly, but with a strong Russian accent, declaring that he had forgotten much from want of practice, but read as well as ever. Then he began to question me as to the purpose of my visit to Russia, and finding that I had some knowledge of his own language, he lapsed suddenly into Russian, asking innumerable questions. Indeed, my first impression of Tolstoy was that of a questioner, who asked somewhat naïve questions, such as might be expected from an Oriental whose interest in things outside his own sphere was only just awakening. His own language he seemed to speak with remarkable simplicity and purity, avoiding foreign words, and invariably employing the popular siudi and tudi (hither and thither) instead of the correct siudá and tudá. But the intonation of his voice showed very plainly his peasant associations. The ordinary educated Russian speaks rapidly. Tolstoy spoke slowly, mouthing every word with a droning intonation only a shade removed from the peasant's whine. He seemed in excellent health, and moved nervously and energetically, waving a ruler with his right hand. But in reply to my inquiry as to his health he said: "Up till now I have been very well, but I am beginning to feel old age." Then for the first time he spoke of himself, saying that he wished to get out of Moscow, and that only consideration for his wife's health kept him in town. But I afterward learned that he was in the habit of spending all his winters in Moscow, and that he regarded, therefore, the winter-time as wasted. But as, instead of tilling the land, he was engaged in revising the manuscript of "Resurrection," few will share his regret.
From Moscow he turned suddenly to the subject of the Dukhobortsi, the first and last subject of which I ever heard him speak. He told me that a number of them were emigrating from the Caucasus to Eastern Siberia, and that he was writing a letter to the captain of one of the Amur steamers, asking him to do what he could to insure their safety. He then began to speak of the condition of the Dukhobortsi in Canada, complaining that they were terribly hampered by want of ready money, and that in order to obtain capital to clear the land granted to them by the Canadian government they had been obliged to take service on the railways, thus bringing about a dispute with the regular railway employees. They had been disappointed also by the climate, finding it difficult to grow fruit, as they were accustomed to do in their former homes. His eldest son was then on his way home from Canada, whither he had accompanied the emigrants, and Tolstoy evidently spoke from his son's reports. During the whole of the spring of 1899, the Dukhobor movement was the one practical
